I'd come home and flop down on my couch. But then I'd hear something in the bedroom, so I go upstairs and there she is, naked, on her hands and knees, waiting patiently.

I'd fuck her pussy. Sometimes I'd pull out and force it into her asshole. She'd grunt in pain, because I didn't bother with lube beyond what was on the rubber, but after I was deep inside her ass, she'd start moaning and begging quietly. "Yes, yes, please, yes!" 

Fuck, I probably would've married the bitch, had she ever stayed around for more time than it took her to wipe her crotch dry with one of my t-shirts and pull on her blue jeans. She'd be out the door while still putting on her bikini-top or whatever. Man, but how I loved the stank those t-shirts gave off, wadded up and steaming in the corner.

But just as randomly as she had started showing up, she stopped.  A few weeks later the cops showed up and stuck her father into the back of a roller, making sure to bang his head against the roof. Twice.  Dug up the yard, too.

A year later and there's still not anyone in that house. I'll park my car across from it sometimes. Stare into those dark, empty windows. They stare back at me, like the eyes of a lost child. And I think to myself about how I never should've washed those t-shirts.